


Exchange

by baixue88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baixue88/pseuds/baixue88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose is threatening to abandon Robb's campaign.  Catelyn must do all she can to convince him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exchange

“I am considering returning north,” Roose said.

Catelyn gaped at him, not believing her own ears. “You would turn your back on your own king?”

“King only of the North, for now. My men are far from home, and winter is coming. The Ironmen are harrying our lands and the harvests – what little there are – need to be taken in before the frost settles fully. My men grow restless, tarrying here in the riverlands, and my bastard grows restless at home.”

“Edmure is marrying tomorrow,” Catelyn replied, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. She tried to stop the shaking in her fingers as she put down her cup of wine. “We will not be tarrying much longer.”

“We have already tarried far too long as it is.” Roose sat down next to her at her table, and she had to bite back a noise of reproach at his presumption. He had requested a private audience with her in her chambers at the Twins, preventing her from achieving the early sleep she needed. She had much to do tomorrow in assisting her brother on his wedding day, and she planned to arise earlier than usual. Already the night was drawing on, and the light from the fireplace was the only light that remained in her chamber.

She shivered, trying not to look into Roose's pale eyes. He was right; the nights were colder already. She took another sip of wine, savoring the warmth of it pooling in her belly.

“You have a new wife,” she reminded him, “and you'll have far more to gain when Robb achieves his goals. You have come so far. Why turn back now?”

“I am eager to go home with my new wife,” he all but whispered. “I must create proper heirs.”

Catelyn put a hand to her brow. She could already feel tomorrow's headache, ghosting at the edges of her mind, as soft and subtle as the feel of Roose's gaze upon her. “How is it, then, that I may convince you? We cannot lose your support, Lord Bolton. What is it you desire? Lands? Titles? Gold?”

“I have what I need in gold and land and titles,” he murmured, and went silent. She looked up at him, and met his pale, milky eyes. Without a word, without a twitch of his smooth, ageless face, he simply let his gaze drop: down her long neck, into the dip between her breasts.

_Oh._

Her stomach roiled, and she took another drink – deeper this time – of her wine. _Gods_ , she thought, pleaded, to any who would listen, _Gods!_ She could think of nothing further to pray, and there was no reply. There was only Roose, sitting there next to her, so close she could feel the meager warmth from his body, watching her with those flat, snakelike eyes.

And yet, what could she do? If she refused him now, he may very well leave tonight, with no further ado, not even staying long enough for Edmure's wedding. She knew enough of the Boltons to not take their threats as idle. He would do it, unless she convinced him otherwise.

 _I am no common whore, to give my honor away for...for...._ For what? For her son? Her beloved son, who needed every scrap of help he could get? What kind of mother would she be, to not sacrifice even her own honor to give him his due?

_But Ned...oh Ned...what would you think of me?_

_If I sleep with Roose now,_ she realized suddenly, _I may still avenge Ned later. Refuse Roose, and Ned may never have his vengeance. The vengeance he deserves._

For Robb. For Ned. She looked at Roose again, and took another drink. He was not an ugly man. He was not particularly handsome, either. He was plain, unmarred by wrinkles or blotches or moles, but pale as death and with a dead man's eyes that made her shiver. He was just barely taller than her, and fit looking enough, though not strong and broad-shouldered like Ned had been. Still, he had not let his body go to waste like other men did. From what she heard, he took pristine care of himself, though in his own strange ways.

In truth, she could not object to sleeping with him on physical grounds. He might have nothing in particular to recommend him, but again, he had nothing to make him unacceptable to her.

“More wine, my lady?” His voice made her jump, and she realized how long he'd gone without speaking, how long he'd simply sat and looked at her.

She said nothing, but he filled her cup anyway, and she drank. The warmth was working its way out from her belly, up to her chest and down to her womb. Her thoughts were a little looser now, the jagged edges of her horror dulled like sharp rocks turned to pebbles by a stream.

_For Robb. For Ned._

“You will say nothing?” She asked, and looked down into the dregs of her cup. Had she finished it so quickly?

“You have my word, my lady. I will be as silent as the dead. No whisper of this will leave your chamber door.”

She nodded, shuddering a little as she did, but she set her cup down firmly upon the table. Resolved.

She stood, and he joined her politely. “What is your pleasure, Lord Bolton?”

“Undress,” he whispered, his voice as soft as the leaves of a book, and she knew it was a command.

There, with the firelight flickering over her skin, she undid the ties of her dress and let the fabric pool on the floor beneath her, leaving only her shift and smallclothes.

He stood and waited.

She pulled off her shift, and, with more hesitation, let her smallclothes drop to the floor, and stood there shivering before his hooded gaze.

“Sit down on the bed,” he told her, as emotionlessly as if he was simply telling a servant to shut the door. She backed away from him, not willing to turn her back to a man like this, and sat, her spine straight and her head held high. She would not go to this like a shamefaced whore or a shivering maid on her wedding night. She would let him know what it was to bed the mother of the King of the North.

Roose, satisfied, began to remove his cloak and clothes. His cloak he folded smartly and hung over a chair, and his boots were placed in perfect order beneath it. He took a painstakingly long time in removing each article of clothing, folding it, placing it in proper order upon the chair, until he was naked before her.

His skin was as smooth and hairless as his face but for the dark curls at his armpits and groin; his nipples, pale pink and hard from the cold, were the only marks upon him. The rest was as pale and smooth as carved marble, though not like the idealized statues she'd seen. He was fit and strong in his own way, she could see, but no muscles stood out on him.

Roose walked over, and Catelyn wanted to shrink away, to look away from him, but she did not. She sat and she watched him and she refused to let him see her waver in this. He laid down on the side of the bed opposite her and gestured to her.

“Come,” he commanded softly.

She swallowed, and moved over so that she was sitting next to him, her legs tucked underneath her.

“Touch me, Catelyn.”

Her name. He used her name. She bristled and wanted to slap him, to call in the guards and have him thrown off the bridge of the Twins, but she thought of Robb and she thought of Ned and she reached out and, fingers trembling, took hold of his cock. He was already a little hard, and it did not take long before he began to swell under her. With a stolen glance up at his face, she could see his eyes half-closed in pleasure like some sleeping cat. Tentative, she moved her thumb over the slit on his head and he let out a soft breath, barely enough to hear, and his hips moved upward. A clear, slick fluid began to leak from him and she saw the corners of his mouth barely twitch upward in a smile.

“Come here,” he patted his flat stomach gently. Catelyn frowned in confusion. Ned had never asked her to do this. Still, she gritted her teeth and slung one leg over him and sat down, very gently, on his stomach. His cock, now stiff and twitching, rubbed tight up between her buttocks.

“Good.” Roose lifted his hands, small and delicate as they were, and ran them up her sides. She shuddered suddenly, ticklish, and flushed in shame at the second twitch of his lips. His fingers, short and delicate and almost womanish, cupped the undersides of her breasts, his thumbs circling over her nipples, which were already hard and aching from the chill in the air.

He pinched them, and she gasped, and his lips parted a fraction to reveal white teeth.

He kept one hand on her breast, but the other traced a spidery-light trail down between them to her belly-button so that she shivered again involuntarily. Gentle as breath, he traced a circle over her navel, and then descended further, into the soft hair between her legs, until his thumb found the little nub of flesh at the apex of her womanhood. He pressed the smooth pad of his thumb against it and rotated it in a circle and Catelyn bit down on her lip, not wanting the surge of pleasure that seared through her to show.

Too late. Another flash of teeth, and Roose rotated his thumb again. This time, Catelyn rocked against his stomach. She had ceased to support herself on her legs and was now fully seated upon his smooth abdomen, but he didn't seem to mind the weight of her. His fingers continued to work her clit, and with his other hand he continued to pinch and rub at her nipple before letting that hand drift upward, up her neck, to cup her face.

She groaned, and against her own judgment, leaned her head into his hand, her mouth opening just enough to allow him to slip his thumb between her lips.

She was rocking steadily on his stomach now, feeling his cock move against her buttocks, leaving a wet trail where his head brushed against her soft skin. She was leaving wetness upon him now too; she could feel it, slick on his smooth, hairless skin, warm and spilling from her as he continued his gentle ministrations. He rotated his hand, keeping the pad of his thumb on her clit, and pressed his fingers between her lower lips, into the heat of her.

She moaned, and realized that she was sucking upon his thumb.

“Now,” he hissed, and Catelyn did not hesitate. She rose up on her legs and moved back until the head of him was pressed to her entrance, and sat.

She had not been with a man in so, so long, and his hardness going into her made her feel almost like a maid again, with the unfamiliarity of it filling her up, moving within her, so unbearably close and real and one with her now.

He moved his hand to grab her thigh, hard enough so that she knew there would be bruises the next day, and kept his other hand cupping her head, his thumb in her mouth. She rotated her hips, rising and falling upon him, riding him like she'd never ridden Ned, and him lifting his hips to meet her in rhythm. Their movements grew faster, the circle-rhythm tighter, and someone was moaning loud enough to wake the dead. His hand released her hip and moved back to her clit, beckoning her further away and out of herself and she released his thumb from her mouth to scream as the orgasm was ripped from her.

He let out a few short gasps as she bucked on top of him, and she knew with sudden horror that he'd spilled his seed inside of her, but she couldn't think long enough to pray to the Gods that it wouldn't take root, because the orgasm was still shuddering through her every muscle and she was still grinding down on him, frantic and desperate and maddened with it. There was wet between her legs, on him, everywhere, uncontrollably pouring from her and she thought for a horrified moment that she'd wet herself on top of him.

Finally, it released her, and she pulled off of him, his cock withdrawing slick from between her legs.

She sat back on the bed, her limbs still quivering with the remnants of what had shaken her, and she looked at Roose lying there naked and going soft and covered in their wetness, and she wept.

Roose Bolton laughed.

–

“Why?” She whispered to him the next night, her eyes meeting his pale gaze, pleading with Death. _“Why?”_

“I had a better offer.”


End file.
